from two days ago
Dinner.
The many-fingered spine of a codfish
is floating in our soup.
its body across a liquid chasm
the chest space, weightless
our sky:
a field of blueberries
not stars.
This is the aching heart of dissonance:
an army of chairs across an empty dining room.
Where our world is the ice chest of clandestine moments;
peach fuzz, in all of its familiar forms.
The butter knife; our foreign friend
unused in a drawer where
I am the dust-mote
I am the splinter.
The many-fingered spine of a codfish
is floating in our soup.
its body across a liquid chasm
the chest space, weightless
our sky:
a field of blueberries
not stars.
This is the aching heart of dissonance:
an army of chairs across an empty dining room.
Where our world is the ice chest of clandestine moments;
peach fuzz, in all of its familiar forms.
The butter knife; our foreign friend
unused in a drawer where
I am the dust-mote
I am the splinter.